And it doesn’t seem to be getting any easier the third time around.

Mornings are tough but manageable, thanks to my patented trick of training my children to stay in bed later than they might ordinarily enjoy.

Me: Oooo _ it’s snuggle time. Let’s get under the covers and talk about what we want for breakfast.

Bee: Yay! Snuggle time. I want oatmeal and pancakes and sausage, no, bacon and marshmallows shaped like Christmas trees and pretzels and ...

Me: Zzzzzzzzzz.

I’ve never said I was a good parent.

So that’s how I deal with mornings. That and copious, stomach-eroding amounts of strong, strong coffee and other caffeinated beverages.

The rest of the day usually goes pretty smoothly. And even if I never technically accomplish anything, at least we all have a decent time together.

By nighttime, however, I have to face an uncomfortable truth: My children’s functional hours exceed mine. By 7 p.m., I am so thoroughly done, I would hire Tara Reid to come over to the house and serve as our evening nanny if it would mean I could go take a bath. Alone. Without anyone throwing toys into the tub. [an error occurred while processing this directive]